Chapter 19 Luisa #2
“Well, how do you do, young man?” Judy shakes Tripp’s hand, her cheeks gleaming. Something tells me that she, too, has been enchanted by our creation. Beside me, Holly exhales in visible relief.
“He just moved to Atlanta,” Aunt Edna offers. “I may have to take him under my wing for a bit.” She winks at Tripp, and he responds with that irresistible smile.
I shift in my seat, uncomfortable. The last thing I want is to unwittingly bring a gullible old lady into our scheme.
“And I see you’ve met our Virginia,” Judy says, gesturing for them to join us. They sit side by side on the sofa, way too close for comfort in this muggy heat. I set my feminist values aside for a moment, just long enough to imagine myself tearing that stupid magnolia hat right off her head.
“We’re already old friends!” Virginia smiles, resting one hand on his bicep. Tripp plays along, laughing at her inanity. “Even our derby looks are color-coordinated.”
They look made for each other—white, Southern, genteel. I can easily see them gracing the cover of a Southern Living magazine. Despite knowing better, I can’t help but feel like a smudge in an otherwise perfect photograph.
“I saw him in those fabulous shorts standing by the bar,” she recounts. “I said, ‘I must know where you got those!’ ”
Tripp gestures dismissively. “These old things? Well, they are festive.” He glances over at me from under his Ray-Bans. I offer him a tight, closed-lip smile.
“Carnivalesque,” I exclaim abruptly, narrowing my gaze at him. “They remind me of that old Turkish proverb,” I add, pointedly. “When a clown moves into a palace, he doesn’t become a king. The palace becomes a circus.”
Tripp smiles, quirking an eyebrow, seeming to grasp my full meaning. Holly elbows me in the side.
“Never heard the saying,” Virginia says, drawing out the vocals so that “never” sounds like “nevahh.” “But I like it.” I guess she missed the backhanded insult I was throwing her way. “Anyway—” she says, turning to address Judy and Aunt Edna. “Tripp’s a Rebel, just like my cousin Shuggs.”
“Hotty Toddy, Gosh almighty,” Tripp chants, much to Virginia’s delight.
I glance anxiously at Holly, worried that Virginia is about to blow our cover. In a school with twenty thousand students, what are the odds that we’ve run into someone who knows the real Tripp?
“I can’t wait for y’all to meet sometime,” she gushes, squeezing Tripp’s arm. “He’s a senior, so smart. Can’t believe my little Shuggy will be going off to med school in the fall.”
Holly sighs, pressing into my forearm with her hand. The look in her eyes seems to say, Little Shuggy is too young to know the real Tripp. I shoot her back a mental response that clearly telegraphs, You better make fucking sure Little Shuggy is not gonna turn up at the club.
Holly nods in understanding before exclaiming in her best fake, cheerful voice, “Oh, that’s so exciting! What are his plans for the big summer of freedom before the med-school grind?”
“Oh, you know,” Virginia says dismissively. “Big Eurail tour with his Sigma Nu brothers, right up to the day he starts.”
Thank goodness for European frat bro adventures. I should let out the breath I’m holding, but I’m too worked up to relax. One single person, in the wrong place at the wrong time, could undo all our hard work and derail our plans.
Blessedly, Virginia moves on. “Tripp joins us all the way from the other Madison, in Mississippi.” She laughs at her own insipid joke. “Family’s all from Greenwood, in the Delta.”
“Greenwood?” Judy asks wistfully. “Oh, how I enjoy the Grand Boulevard. It’s one of the crowning conservation efforts in the South, if you ask me.
” She stares at Tripp expectantly. For the briefest of moments, his smile falters, his eyebrow twitches.
We covered the Grand Boulevard in a prep session, and the hundreds of oaks that form a cathedral over it.
“Those oaks are spectacular,” I proffer, trying to jog his memory. But there’s no need. Tripp skillfully spins away from Greenwood and the oaks.
“Unfortunately, I didn’t get to enjoy it as much as I would’ve liked.” His tone goes solemn, and the gathered women tilt forward, curious. “Our family suffered a tragic small plane crash back in oh-seven. My momma—God rest her soul—died in the accident.”
Virginia may just cry. “You poor thing,” she coos, moving her hand to cover the top of his bare thigh.
Tripp’s muscles tense under the touch, but he doesn’t pull away.
I’m so torn inside, I can barely sit still.
Tripp’s feigned vulnerability is so seductive that I honestly can’t blame Virginia or anyone else for being charmed by it—part of me can’t help but be proud of him. This is all confusing as hell.
“Daddy remarried and we moved to Madison. Those were lonely years, but what can you do? Eventually, trouble finds you.” Virginia shakes her head in understanding.
Holly silently nods, doing a much better job than me at keeping a straight face.
“After Momma’s death, I went a little off the rails, to be honest. But I’m back on the straight and narrow now.
” He offers his most beguiling grin, an expression assiduously crafted for maximum intrigue and allure.
With one calculated smile, he’s able to arouse equal parts hope and desire.
It’s a little too tempting, that grin of his.
“Oh, Trippy,” Virginia cries out. Trippy? “You poor, poor thing.” She presses herself to his side in a shameless side-boob rub. And that’s when I remove my fascinator. Between the heat and the bourbon in the mint juleps, my head is pounding.
“But here I am, among new friends.” He smiles again. “On this beautiful day for a horse race,” Tripp says, then pauses to sip on his mint julep.
“We may have sun and fun today, but it rained all day yesterday,” Aunt Edna observes, one hand wrapped around the top of her bejeweled cane. “That track will be one and a quarter miles of pure slop. Our champion must rise from the mud.”
“Aunt Edna’s father was a horse trainer,” Holly explains.
“She’s something of a derby expert.” I, too, have become “something of a derby expert” during the past week, combing the Kentucky Derby and Churchill Downs websites, watching documentaries and YouTube videos.
My chest swelled with pride when I learned the world’s best jockey school is in Puerto Rico.
“Are you a betting man, Tripp?” Aunt Edna asks, eyeing him curiously.
“Ma’am”—his left hand covers his heart and his body inches forward, shaking off Virginia’s hand—“I’m not a man of many vices. But I thoroughly enjoy a friendly wager.”
Tripp removes his sunglasses to reveal a foreboding glint in his eyes. A chill runs down my spine. I’m reminded of the pool shark we met at the Westlake biker bar, the one who fleeced a room full of frat guys.
“You want a little betting advice?” Aunt Edna asks, moving toward the edge of her seat. “Clean out everyone’s pockets?”
“Go on,” Tripp says, placing both feet on the floor, creeping closer to Aunt Edna.
I poke at Holly’s side, urging her to jump in. To release Eli’s predator instincts among these unsuspecting rich people would be a very bad idea.
“Tripp probably doesn’t want to take money from all these folks he just met,” Holly says, forcing a smile. “That wouldn’t make the best first impression.”
“Bah,” Aunt Edna exclaims, waving her cane in the air. “Everyone’s here to clean up.”
“That’s right,” Judy chimes in, eagerly rubbing her hands together, making me question the real nature of their old ladies’ bridge club.
“Errol Dean is taking bets in the garage. Odds are on the chalkboard.” She points to a list next to the TV, broadcasting the horse races.
Twenty horse names appear in order of their program numbers.
Next to each is their starting gate position, winning odds, and potential payout. “Just fill out your slip and pay up.”
“My money is on the Queen’s Curse,” Aunt Edna loud-whispers to Tripp. “Are you with me?”
“Hogwash,” Judy cries out. “The Queen’s Curse is dead last. Odds are fifty to one. Seventeenth post position, the kiss of death.”
“It’s the most unlucky position at the starting gate,” Holly adds. “That position has never produced a winner. Some people say it’s cursed.” Then, glaring at Tripp, she adds, “Which is why it’s such a terrible idea to place a bet.”
“Maybe it takes one curse to break another,” Tripp replies breezily. “But fifty to one? Those are some mighty high odds.”
Aunt Edna directs the top of her staff at Tripp, piercing him with her blue eyes as she declares, “She’s a mudder. A mudlark, you understand?”
Tripp nods, watching her with rapt intensity. These two seem to be having a one-on-one conversation that none of us are invited into—not even poor Virginia.
“The Queen’s Curse knows how to spin mud into gold,” Aunt Edna says, her eyes going a little wild. “Mark my words, young man, she will conquer the slop.”
And then to our extreme dismay, Tripp cries out, “I’m in!”
Two hours later—mostly thanks to Virginia’s extraordinary gossip prowess—news of Tripp, his mother’s tragic death, Bedford Hall, and The Colonel has swept through the hearts of every last one of the partygoers like a wildfire consuming grassland.
Incidentally, several of the women have been plying him with drinks, in spite of our best efforts to take control.
Seen from a pragmatic point of view, I should be delighted that Tripp’s foray into this world has been so unexpectedly effortless.
Today, after all, has brought us a step closer to completing our mission.
But as we head inside the coach house for the main derby event, betting slips in hand, I’m only growing more tense and restless.
Virginia takes Tripp by the arm, pulling him to the front, where they catch up with Aunt Edna to huddle in a mass in front of the giant TV screen.
I grab Holly’s arm and force our way to the front beside them.
Tripp went all in with Aunt Edna on the Queen’s Curse, blatantly ignoring our repeated warnings.
The crowd holds a collective breath as the horses are loaded into position and a camera pulls back to pan over the starting line.
More people squeeze into the garage, pushing us even closer together, until I’m standing in front of Tripp, my back pressed flat against him, so close that I can sense his almost feverish body heat through the thin fabric of his shirt.
It’s like a sauna in here. A bead of sweat travels down my neck and disappears into my bra. This race can’t be over fast enough.
I peer up, ready to apologize for the tight space intrusion, but I find him staring down at me, a soft closed-mouth smile on his lips.
In that instant, Tripp disappears. The crowd around us and all the chaos seem to fade.
I’m staring back into Eli’s gray eyes, so much older than his years, wondering what’s crossing that clever mind of his.
Why is he here, doing all this? Is it just about the money for him?
Or does he actually care about our mission? About me?
I wish I could ask him—and get an honest answer.
Then the starting bell rings and we’re back at the center of the raucous crowd. “And they’re off!” the race announcer calls out, to cheers and applause.
Everyone, it seems, has a horse in this race. There’s pointing and yelling, all-out screaming and hollering as the twenty horses gallop around the muddy track. “Well behind the rest of them is the Queen’s Curse,” the announcer says.
Tripp pulls at his hair, yelling out at the screen, “Come on, Queeny, move your damn ass! Move your ass!”
Oh no. No. No. No. He’s slipped out of that Mississippi lilt and into his full-on North Georgia twang. This can’t be good. To my left I hear Holly through the commotion, muttering an “Oh God.”
Oh God, indeed. These are the most stressful two minutes of my life.
The announcer is spitting horse’s names and positions so fast, it’s impossible to keep up.
Tripp is doing his own jockeying behind me, shouting at the TV with one first raised. “Eat that mud! Eat that mud!” He sounds like a full-on redneck.
To my—and Holly’s—absolute shock, Aunt Edna joins him, falling into a Kentucky hillbilly holler. My jaw drops, nearly scratching the floor.
“Dig in there, Queenie,” she yelps, waving her betting slip in the air. “Shoo, shoo, shoo! Bring it on home, girl!”
“Make it rain,” Tripp yowls in unison with Aunt Edna.
“The Queen’s Curse is exploding through the rail!
” the voice on the TV shouts as the horses round a corner.
The announcer is now tripping over his words.
The man can’t seem to speak fast enough to keep up with the action.
“She’s taking the lead as she comes down to the finish.
A spectacular, spectacular, monumental upset at fifty to one! ”
“Well, hot damn! Hot diggity damn!” I hear Eli shout as the announcer declares, “The Queen’s Curse has won the Kentucky Derby.”
I don’t have to look at Holly to know it. “Hot diggity damn” is not going to fly.
But none of it matters. Virginia throws her arms over Tripp’s shoulders and plants a pink-stained kiss on his lips. Tripp pulls back in surprise, his smile stiffening in mild shock.
Without warning, my heart sinks to my feet.
Instinctively, I walk back, arms folded over myself, eager to put distance between us, eager to get my head on straight.
In the process, I almost trip into a waiter carrying a tray of Kentucky mules.
Eli searches for me over the horde, his apologetic gaze landing on my bewildered expression.
I turn away fast, trudging my way out of the commotion, desperate for fresh air.
Why do I feel so wrecked by that kiss?